Murder In The Motor Stable: (Auguste Didier Mystery 9) (6 page)

‘The laws of physics do not permit perpetual motion,’ Auguste pointed out dubiously. Surely where Ancient Greece had failed to supply an answer, it was very unlikely that Upper Norwood would succeed.

‘It is very simple,’ Hester announced loftily, instantly assuming proprietorial rights. ‘Wind blows in as the car moves forward and is converted by the dynamo and motor into electricity to recharge the battery as fast as it discharges.’

‘The voltmeter will always show around two volts per cell,’ Harold explained. ‘I got the idea from my daughter Dolly’s paper windmill which she bought at the Zoo. That’s why I’ve painted the propeller blades these colours – to please Dolly.’

‘Suppose there is a tailwind, or no wind at all, or the wind is not coming from the front?’ Tatiana asked doubtfully.

‘Naturally Mr Dobbs has thought of that,’ Hester snapped. ‘The weathercock tells me if the wind has changed. I have a handle here on my left,’ she bent down and jerked it and the huge cowl on the left mudguard promptly swung round through 360 degrees, ‘and on my right.’ The right-hand cowl obediently followed suit. ‘Dolly Dobbs can catch the wind from whatever direction it comes from. If there
is
no wind, merely driving the car forward will create it. I shall be honoured to drive this wonderful invention on its official trials.’

Only because, Auguste reflected, of the glory it would reflect on Hester Hart. He agreed with Tatiana: he did not like Hester Hart. She had charm, but then so did Medusa.

‘You’ll certainly attract notice,’ Tatiana commented, still convinced there must be a flaw in Harold’s theory and longing to see the car in motion. ‘We’ve kept the car’s appearance today a secret, but if Mr Bailey managed to see anything before we stopped him just now, it’s possible—’

‘Thomas Bailey
here
?’ Harold interrupted. ‘Are you sure?’ He went very pale.

‘Yes,’ Tatiana said blithely. ‘I recognised him at once. Isn’t he rumoured to be working on a new car too?’

Harold clutched his brow feverishly, ignoring Tatiana’s question. ‘Take her back into the motor house,’ he unwisely ordered Dolly’s driver in a strangled voice.

‘Nonsense,’ Hester retorted.

‘
Take it back!
’ Harold was so agitated he appeared to be about to pull Hester Hart down bodily. She cast them a look, jumped down from the car and marched inside the motor house, beckoning meaningfully to Harold and banging the doors shut after them.

With bated breath, they waited while the sound of raised voices came from within.

‘I back Hester,’ Tatiana said with glee.

‘So do I.’

‘I don’t.’ Judith glared at them. Her faith was justified, for five minutes later they both reappeared. Harold had won, for he climbed on to the driving seat of the Dolly Dobbs and reversed her into the motor house. Hester Hart, without another word but with lips angrily compressed, walked over to where Roderick Smythe had drawn up in the yard.

Seeing her face, he leapt from the car and ushered her
devotedly to the driving seat of his new Crossley.

‘What do you make of
that
?’ Tatiana asked as they drove away without a backward glance. ‘I never thought I’d see Harold Dobbs get the better of Agatha
and
Hester.’

‘Yet he does not seem happy with his victory,’ Auguste observed. Far from it; he looked extremely nervous. Why had the mention of Bailey so alarmed him? And what had the Duchess in mind? Remembering her unusual behaviour, he was convinced she had a plan for revenge. Next Thursday promised to be even more interesting than he had hoped.

‘Pierre, have you packed the
sauce remoularde
for the
mousse de crabe
?’

‘
Naturellement
, Monsieur Didier,’ Pierre answered him patiently. And the horseradish sauce for the quails, and the
sauce chocolat
for the bavarois, and the apricot syrup for the chestnut soufflé pudding, and the hundred and one other details that a luncheon buffet and tea in the grounds of a country house at Richmond would require.

After the hill trials on Petersham Hill in Richmond Park, in which the ladies would compete for the best times between two points, the Dysart Arms in Petersham Road, and the Star and Garter Hotel’s main entrance on the hilltop, the best twenty would compete again on ‘Test Hill’ in Richmond Park, between what Tatiana had referred to as the ‘usual oak trees’.

Auguste was not entirely happy. The Dolly Dobbs episode did not bode well for convivial club gatherings today. Moreover, Pierre’s patisserie inclined to the oversweet. As well as cream, his
millefeuilles
positively oozed honey. Delightful, but unusual. He watched the staff in the last throes of hectic preparation. Once he would have been a bustling part of it, this final onslaught, but now his role was supervisory only.

Today’s banquet was Pierre’s responsibility, next Thursday’s would be his. Yet Pierre did not seem overjoyed at his privilege.

‘Something is troubling you, Pierre?’ he asked eventually. ‘The cold duck, perhaps?’

‘That dog.’

‘Dog?’ Auguste was unable to recall any recipe requiring such ingredients.

‘Working with Luigi Peroni is no pleasure, maître.’

‘Any trouble today is more likely to stem from Miss Hart, I fear.’ Auguste had spoken unguardedly. Gone were the days when his life belonged solely to this side of the green baize door.

‘Mr Smythe has returned to Miss Lockwood?’ Pierre asked with interest.

‘No, but the debut of the Dolly Dobbs has been postponed until next Thursday.’

‘She cannot have been pleased.’

‘She was not.’ Auguste hesitated. ‘You must help me keep a watch on the motorcar until next Thursday, watch for
anyone
trying to get into the motor house.’

‘Miss Hart would surely not harm the motorcar.’

‘No, but others might.’

‘Or harm her?’ Pierre asked anxiously. ‘She is a splendid woman.’

Auguste glanced at him curiously. ‘Yes, but she is the prune in a dish of delicate peaches. Too harsh, too dark. She overshadows all around her.’

The last baskets left the kitchen for the motor vans outside. To Auguste, who had reluctantly agreed that motor vans were the most sensible form of transport for a precious buffet, their radiators and lamps seemed to be grinning at him with some
secret knowledge as he emerged into the courtyard where the cavalcade was lined up.

Winter House, whose grounds ran down to the river bank, was a Georgian brick mansion which had belonged to the Francis family ever since it had been built. The present incumbent, Hugh Francis, cousin and lover of Isabel, Countess of Tunstall, was a bachelor who undoubtedly merited the description of a ‘swell’. It said much for his cousinly (or other) devotion that he was prepared to allow over a hundred motorcars to bump over his grass. Such considerations were trivial beside the attractions of Isabel.

Auguste’s nose for trouble, however, was twitching like a diviner’s hazel twig over a waterfall. This waterfall must be underground, however, for looking round he could see nothing to justify his anxiety. The ladies and their passengers had now arrived from the hill trials, and Tatiana’s whispered information that Hester Hart had won the hill trials in the Crossley with times of 1 minute 42 seconds on Petersham Hill and an astounding 1 minute 48 seconds on Test Hill had not so far ruined the day. Nor had the thrilling news that Maud had side-slipped on to the grass behind her, or that poor Phyllis’s benzine tank had been filled with water at an inn by a misguided ostler. Auguste told himself modestly that his buffet, even though he was just supervising this one, could always be counted on to cheer the most aggrieved of spirits.

It had clearly done so this time. He glanced round at the colourful assembly on the lawns, dust coats discarded and parasols sprouting like exotic cabbages. He had been wrong. All would be well.

‘What are you going to do about that woman, Agatha?’ Maud
Bullinger bit viciously into an éclair. ‘You’re not going to let her drive the Dolly Dobbs, are you?’

‘Are you going to let her drive in the International Women’s Race?’ the Duchess countered.

‘Out of my hands.’ Maud looked at her heavy fingers as though she’d like to strangle the lady.

‘And mine.’ Agatha smiled brightly.

‘You’re up to something, aren’t you?’ Maud suddenly realised.

‘There are more ways to kill a cat, as the old saying goes.’

‘Be careful, Agatha,’ Maud frowned. ‘We don’t want that old story raked up again.’

Both women rearranged their faces as the Duke ambled towards them. ‘My dear,’ his Duchess informed her sister-in-law, ‘I quite forgot I hadn’t dropped the sprog; I almost dropped it when the Horbick started running backwards but then I remembered . . .’

Edward, Duke of Dewbury, put an expression of polite interest on his face and decided to track down old Hugh for the latest cricket score. Women never talked about anything of interest.

Some wasted little time in talk at all. Isabel was in bed with Hugh in an upper room in Winter House. She had long since exhausted her interest in discussing average speeds, times and pneumatic tyres. She had taken part in the hill trials solely for the sake of form; she cared not a whit that Hester Hart had won. She cared rather more that the lady was to take such a prominent part in next Thursday’s run to Canterbury. As mistress of Martyr House, she expected to star in her role; instead, that woman would be – if this Dolly Dobbs vehicle performed well – graciously received by His Majesty, who
might well learn from her the story of how he had earlier been deprived of that privilege. Depending on his mood, he might laugh or he might dismiss Isabel from his court for ever. And
that
wasn’t going to happen.

‘Darling, where are you?’ Hugh’s voice whispered in her ear.

Isabel was suddenly aware that she was wasting precious minutes of Hugh’s foreplay, all because of that woman, and exerted herself to show due appreciation as became her role of sultry and seductive mistress.

‘Nonsense.’ Hester smiled fondly at Roderick. ‘I know you are as impatient as I am. Let it be today.’ She used the look that had melted hearts from the Euphrates to the Yukaton.

For once Roderick was less than eager. His eye strayed to Phyllis Lockwood who was forlornly twirling her parasol and talking to Sir Algernon Bullinger, a far from animated conversationalist. Hester’s eye strayed that way too, and her ill temper increased. Victories should be consolidated, whether in hill climbs or personal life. ‘I shall think you are regretting wanting to marry me if we don’t announce it today.’

Roderick was horrified. ‘Never,
never
.’ What, do without those exquisitely tormenting tricks of Hester’s? He had, however, drawn the line at having his johnnie stung by a bee before he began. He’d had many interesting amorous experiences during his racing career but Hester had crowned them all; she was the Queen who had conquered the Desert of his Life, as he had romantically put it to her. No, he couldn’t let her go. With some effort, he turned his back on Phyllis and devoted himself to Hester who was now talking to Tatiana. With ladies, even princesses, Hester used less charm than with gentlemen.

‘I’m still prepared to join your committee,’ she informed Tatiana challengingly.

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible this year now the vote has been taken.’ Tatiana tried to look regretful.

Auguste, watching with some anxiety from his privileged position behind the
pièce montée
(in the shape of a car), saw Hester’s lips tighten. It was fortunate he was not close enough to hear Hester’s reply to his wife: ‘You are right to be afraid, Your Highness.’

‘I am among friends,’ snarled Hester from a rostrum conveniently provided by a grassy bank. Hugh had agreed she might address the assembly albeit somewhat ungraciously, but her ‘friends’ were congregating extremely slowly. ‘Under the stars, under an Arabian sky, how often have I longed for England’s green fields—’

To Auguste’s delight, Hester’s address was abruptly terminated by what seemed to be a cloud of dust travelling up the drive, emitting war whoops. As the dust cleared, he saw it was caused by a dozen or so horses galloping at full stretch, led by what appeared to be Buffalo Bill himself in front, with Annie Oakley at his side. All dozen riders were brandishing placards like tomahawks, all reading ‘Down With the Dolly Dobbs’. The Hams had arrived to save the day.

‘Listen to me,’ Hester shouted in vain as the troop drew to a halt and her audience was surrounded by a circle of horses and dismounting riders in Wild West costume. All save Buffalo Bill himself who, much to Hortensia’s surprise, promptly if inexpertly tried to hide behind his charger.

Auguste hurried forward just as Hester spotted John Millward. ‘Have you yet taken tea?’ he inquired politely, edging between Hester and her prey.

Hortensia grinned at him. ‘Good fodder, is it?’

‘Both for you, madam, and the horses.’

‘Any old
foie gras
will do for me. Then lead me to this Dolly monster.’

Auguste began to like Hortensia. ‘I’m afraid Dolly stayed at home.’

‘Never mind,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘We’ll puncture some tyres instead.’

‘Stop trying to hide, John,’ Hester Hart said grimly.

Buffalo Bill bravely emerged from behind his horse. ‘Good afternoon, Hester.’